Stolen Kisses are the Sweetest
by YokaiKittens
Summary: Alfred is thinking back on his first real loss: Davie. Luckily, Arthur is here to help. *Have you read Hima's new strip? The one that has the whole fandom crying? Yeah, read that first before reading this.*


_**You have to have seen the new strip on Himarya's blog about Davie to understand this. Thank you very much for reading and I hope you enjoy. **_

_**This is also my first Hetalia fic. I'm scared. **_

* * *

_"See these?"_

_"Yes…"_

_"Aren't they beautiful?"_

_A frantic nod._

_"They are forget-me-nots. You give them to our friends and family…to those you love, and they will never forget you…"_

_"Weally?!"_

_A nod in return._

_"I'll get some for you!"_

_"Really?" A gentle laugh._

_"Yes! I'll get you a whole bunch!"_

_"O-Okay…come back soon…!"_

Innocence was a fragile thing, though you could never expect a country to be able to hold onto it forever. In those days, America knew not of death. He knew of love, for he was given it by his questionable older brother, though he did smother him quite often. He knew of friendship, too, but he knew not the correct people to make it with—he made the mistake of letting himself befriend a human.

He was too young to understand the consequences of his actions—far too young to realize the loss he would feel later on. The pain of being forgotten.

As America grew older, he seemed to really take in what happened. How he was forgotten in the human man's age. _If only he'd gotten those flowers to him sooner…then maybe he wouldn't have been forgotten…_

But that was only a fool's hope.

And on this bright and sunny day, on a day much like the one he had first met and first lost _him, _America was quite different. In fact, every year on this day, his mind was always far away.

The other countries noted it, too. But they never asked. A country's business was a country's business, after all.

Germany had taken hold of the world meeting, where America would usually be. His tone was boring and America couldn't bring himself to pay attention, his mind completely lost in a world of its own. France was letting his hands get dangerously close to England's vital regions, and England would slap him away, trying to pay attention to the words being said. Italy was doodling on his files, smiling goofily and "ve"ing every thirty minutes or so in satisfaction. Germany had long since given up on getting the boy's full attention. Russia was passing looks to China, and the man would meet his gaze and then jerk his head away, following back to Germany. Whenever Germany said something specific, the nation's would pass America knowing looks, thinking he'd jump up and butt in in protest or agreement. He didn't. Just sat silently, paying attention to nothing in particular.

_"Maybe you should go home."_

Everyone looked over at the interruption. Germany cleared his throat, clearly annoyed. America blinked, lifting his blue eyes from the blank sheet he was supposed to be writing notes on and towards the voice.

England stood, straightening his tie before looking over to America. France, beside him, watched curiously, a little grin on his face before the Brit spoke, "Go home."

"Why?" His eyebrows stooped low to send a glowering look.

"You clearly aren't paying any attention and it's not like it matters anyway. We are done discussing the most important issues."

America didn't seem to be in the mood for an argument, yet proceeded. "But—"

"Go, America, _please." _

_Please? _America's eyes widened, staring unfathomably at his adoptive elder brother as he sat back down and everyone seemed to be looking at America. Usually, he loved to have every eye set on him, but this time it was different. Strange. He hated it.

America huffed softly, pulling all of his stuff (and leaving a lot behind in his hurry) and stomping from the large table. As he left the room, he barely managed to not slam the door. It seemed his attitude had caused a lot of tension in the room because as soon as the door closed, chatter began to erupt. They had all been extremely uncomfortable with America in his less-than-depressed attitude.

_Dammit, _America cursed. _Damn Brit, _he added, as if it'd make him feel better about leaving the meeting. It didn't.

The World Meeting had been held in London this year. America preferred it here since it was the closest thing to home. (Perspective wise, not location.) It was raining heavily, and the large nation took a cab back to his hotel. The lady at the desk greeted him with a smile and a word or two, but he hadn't acknowledged her as he usually would have. He just went straight to his room, shut the door behind him, and basked in the silence.

The world meeting had never fallen on this day before, and it must have been strange for the other nations to have seen him in this out of character state. The only other who had seen it was England, but it wasn't like the Briton would take advantage of it, like any other nation would. Despairing over your past was a sign of weakness, a mind that could easily be persuaded and pushed. But America could really care less at the moment.

He fell down on the large bed, taking a deep breath. He desperately longed for music to fill the empty silence, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was a bit hungry, too, but it didn't seem to matter. Nothing really mattered. All that he could think of was the past he was lost in.

It was only six in the evening, but he found himself dozing, still in his clothes and shoes. The deafening silence morphed into the murmur of dreams.

When he woke up again, it was because a sound disturbed him. His sight blurred as his eyes shot open, and, confused, he looked over at the clock on the nightstand. It was nine. He'd been asleep for three hours.

He looked over to the door, where he heard the knock. He groaned. _You kidding me? Why now?_

America stood from the bed, realizing how uncomfortable his sleep ad been. He took off the dress jacket, unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and then pulled the tail of the shirt from his pants. He took off his shoes so he was in his white socks. Then he quickly made his way to the door when another annoying knock sounded.

"What the _hell—?"_ America stopped when, after pulling the door open, he saw who it was. England was glaring at him at the rude greeting. He was still in his meeting clothes, so the meeting had probably ended about an hour ago. "What?"

England gave him a critical look, eyes roaming over his figure. He didn't look good—or healthy. Sighing, and maybe starting to rethink his actions, he held out the bouquet of blue…blue flowers.

America froze, staring blankly at the flowers in his brother's hand. He took a minute to process this—the flowers…were forget-me-nots.

_How dare he?_

Before America could give it a second thought, his hand shot out and the bouquet slammed into the far wall, the little flowers scattering. He grabbed England by the collar and the smaller man dangled. His blue eyes had darkened in rage. Was he trying to rub those memories in his face? What was his problem? "What do you think you're _doing—?"_

England kept that same disappointed glare. His smaller hands wrapped around the ones on his collar. "I was trying to be thoughtful," he told him with a straight face that didn't even quiver in terror. Anyone else would have been afraid of the state America was in. Not England, though, he knew him too well.

England clenched his hands around America's, and slowly the younger but definitely more masculine man loosened his hold…and then released completely. England was on the ground once again, and he coughed as that pressure on his throat was gone. He loosened his tie and then pulled it off. Then he brought his eyes back to America's.

"Get out—"

"No, America. I'm here to speak with you. I know you'd rather be alone, but…" He couldn't come up with a satisfactory reason.

America sighed, rolled his eyes. He ran his fingers through his bedraggled hair. He wasn't sure what to think of the situation anymore.

They stood in silence for a long time. England contemplated his words, and America waited in silence. Finally, the older nation found his words, though they weren't the best.

He murmured, "I know how it feels to lose someone—"

"Dammit, England."

"What?!"

"Quit playing older brother." America glared.

"I'm not!" The Brit protested, looking angrily up at stubborn nation. "I…" he hesitated under America's gaze, then seemed to regain his determination. "I'm here as your _friend."_

Alfred took in the unexpected words, his glare softening.

"And don't say were not friends because if we aren't, I don't know what we are."

America said nothing.

Arthur continued. "I know that man was your first human friend. Your first dose of reality as a nation. But all throughout your existence, you are going to connect to people you shouldn't. Humans. And you are going to lose them, but that can't be helped. But there are easier ways to go about their deaths."

"I don't want to be having this conversation with you, Arthur."

"Well you are damn well going to get it!" the Briton flashed back. He sighed, rubbing his face, trying to push away the venom.

"As nations, we must move forward."

America opened his mouth, face distorted in obvious anger, but before he could release it, he was interrupted.

"But moving on does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, moving on from what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change that memory of our past into a new hope for the future."

England paused; looking at the taller nation to see if he was paying attention—and was startled to find that he was indeed. Alfred's face…it was so broken. His eyes on the ground, eyes liquefied and startled.

"Alfred…"

The nation backed into the bed, and then sat. His face did not change.

England followed him, and, without a thought, he grabbed the younger nation's face as gently as he could. "I don't hate you. I know it must've seemed that way. But I really do care for you. A bit too much, I believe. I've never stopped caring. I've always wanted what was best for you… I don't want you to hurt any more than necessary."

England pressed his lips to the nation's forehead, giving him a sympathetic look, and silently wondering if he'd crossed a line, before dropping his hands. America, at the least, looked extremely startled at the action. No tears fell from his eyes, though his wiped at them just in case they got any second ideas.

He stared at England for a while, and the older nation squirmed under the stare. Yes, he had definitely crossed a line.

Alfred chuckled gently, and England looked to see his hand wipe at his forehead. "Ew. Gross."

England couldn't contain his smile. "Stolen kisses are the sweetest." And maybe it seemed a bit strange, rolling off his tongue in a manner similar to the way it had in his past. Whenever Arthur would place a kiss on America as a child, and he'd respond with an "ew" and England would say those exact words.

And then his little Alfie would sneak a kiss to his cheek before running off, giggling.

But Arthur certainly didn't expect that. No, of course not. All he expected…well, what did he expect? America to listen and take his words to heart? Maybe. Hopefully.

America stood, and with startling speed, moved in to England, grabbing his arms and pulling him so close that there was no space in between. Arthur gasped, the unexpected action making his head spin. And then Alfred gently placed his lips to Arthur's.

England was frozen in place, still trying to process what was happening. He was being kissed. By America. America was kissing him. He couldn't move. Oh God, he was paralyzed. He certainly hadn't expected this. No, not at all.

It was a gentle kiss, lip to lip, and no tongue prodding their way into each other's mouth. It was sweet and innocent and unlike any other he had received.

And then Alfred pulled away. He saw the startled look in Arthur's eyes and laughed, grinning mischievously. "Yes…I guess they are."

England's face turned beet red. "You idiot…"

America liked seeing him all flustered and he realized he had a new way to tease the nation.

England quickly tried to move on, not wanting to accept what had just happened. "Have you eaten?" Arthur turned, beginning to walk to the door. "Let's go get something, I'm starving—"

England gasped when the younger nation's arms were wrapped around his waist and his face was pressed into his back. "Alfred—?"

"Do you think he remembers me now?"

England paused, sighing before replying, "Yes…Alfred, I think he is looking down on you now in full remembrance."

"Thank you, Artie."

"Y-yes…its nothing. Come along, everything will be closing soon."

"Mhm-hmm," he muttered, lifting to place a kiss on England's cheek, causing his skin to flush and him to jerk away.

"Let's _go," _Arthur stated hurriedly, before walking out of the still open hotel door.

Alfred grinned, watching as he left. His eyes found the scattered forget-me-nots on the floor, and he went over to pick them up. When he had them all gathered, he placed them on the dresser and smiled at them.

_Forget me not, Arthur Kirkland, for you are the only one who has not. _

* * *

_**This last line. Yes, I know America could never be forgotten, but it is meant to mean the REAL Alfred F. Jones. To actually know HIM. Not who he presents himself to be. **_

_**I am very well aware that this story is probably HORRIBLE. You know when you write something and it makes sense in our head and then when you go over it your like OH MY GOD WAS I ON DRUGS WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.**_

_**But I did enjoy writing it. **_

_**And if you enjoyed reading it, please leave a review telling me so. **_


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